


In a More Intimate Setting

by CaptT_T



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Bondage, F/M, Guilt, Jack's Blossoming Inadequacies, original character death, whatever its called when a pretty girl tells you to do something and your heart explodes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:21:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25600507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptT_T/pseuds/CaptT_T
Summary: Cw: For death, bdsm, traumatic experiences. Please reach out and let me know if I missed anything.Pre and Post- "Death and Hysteria". Phryne discovers new information regarding Jack's sexual tendencies, and Jack tries to keep his heart from exploding. Thanks to chabouillet for the conversation that turned into a brainstorming session. Rated Explicit for chapter 5 onward.
Relationships: Jack Robinson - Relationship, Phryne Fisher & Jack Robinson, Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chabouillet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chabouillet/gifts).



He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old the day he raided the Chinese Brothel. Young, ambitious, eager to prove himself and unafraid of looking a fool as he did so, Jack hadn’t considered the prospect of raiding said brothel as anything besides an opportunity to hone his skills and brush elbows with the Detective Inspector. Which was important, seeing as how he had been trading glances with the Detective Inspector’s daughter, Rosie Sanderson, for several weeks now. 

George Sanderson had scattered a handful of cadets on the streets surrounding Madame Brussels’s that drizzly September morning, all awaiting the signal that would send them running inside like so many eager school children. Jack had stood watch, in his ridiculous domed helmet, waiting for either the signal to rush the premises or the signal to disperse. Given how his fellow cadets had been ribbing each other, all waggling eyebrows and bawdy whispers, Jack hoped for dispersal. It wasn’t that he was a prude, he thought prudishly. He simply didn’t understand why anyone would pay for... well. His hand had done him well enough so far, and anyway someday he and Rosie might— he felt his face grow hot. Rosie was a sweet girl, and her father seemed to respond to their amateurish dalliance with the good grace of a man who knew not to interfere in matters of the heart. Jack wondered idly if he’d ever work up the courage to finally ask Rosie for her favor. She was intelligent, high-minded, and almost cruel in her cleverness. He wondered what it would be like to kiss her, really kiss her. To hold her fully in his arms, to help her undress... He let his mind run away with the thought, welcoming his blush as a warming (and therefore welcome) presence, until he was pulled from his daydreaming by a shout:

“Robinson, let’s go!” 

Jack’s head snapped up, and as he saw his fellow cadets force themselves into the building he felt his abstractly-sensual excitement fade as his purpose— the pursuit of justice— called him forward. 

By the time Jack had swept into the building, steps behind the other cadets, he’d quite forgotten that he was entering a brothel at all. His eyes, alight with the idea of making a difference, serving justice, scanned the scene for danger. Finding none, he searched for someone to take into custody, as per his orders. He spied a young man, his age, maybe younger, currently in the act of attempting to flee, his grey eyes wide at the sight of the police. Jack approached the man, only partially aware of the shouts of the other cadets engaging in much the same action. 

“Excuse me sir, I’ll need you to come with me.” 

The man started, and looked up at Jack with frightened eyes. “Christ,” Jack thought uneasily, then said aloud “You’re too young to be in a place like this.” 

“I wasn’t doing anything, I swear. This was a joke, a… a prank! My friends… they sent me in here. I didn’t know anything about this place sir, honest!” 

Jack looked down at the boy’s hands and quirked an eyebrow. The miscreant was caught in a pair of handcuffs — not unlike the sort Jack carried around with him on the beat— his wrist chafed and raw from where he’d struggled to get free. 

“What’s your name?” he asked mildly. 

“A…Arthur, sir.” came the reply.

“Well, Arthur, you seem fairly involved to me,” he said. “It looks as if you’ve already been caught by a policeman, caused him some mischief, and been stuck here until you can be dealt with.” Jack looked around for the cadet that must have cuffed the boy, but saw no one.

“Sir please, I swear.” Arthur pleaded, grabbing the cuff of Jack’s heavy uniform coat. “My friends made me come in here, told me to take this stupid vase off this stupid table! I know it all sounds very stupid, sir, but please let me go. When I tried to take it a woman spotted me, told me that she wasn’t going to ‘keep letting us rascals get away with this’, and handcuffed me to this table. She said she was going to get the Madame, sir, but she never came back. Please, you have to believe me, my mum’s going to have my head if she finds out I’ve made trouble.” 

Jack sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck while he mulled over the situation. He doubted the child had been detained for any malicious reason; Madame Brussels was known for her scruples, and Arthur hadn’t been hurt, just stayed. There wasn’t a policeman keeping an eye on him either, other than Jack himself, so his earlier theory wasn’t likely. He glared down at Arthur, annoyed. This was supposed to be a simple raid, in and out with a polite nod to the Detective Inspector, and now Cadet Robinson had been relegated to babysitting. Unless, of course, he just… let the boy go? 

Jack deliberated. The kid really was young enough to get into parental trouble for this escapade, so a bluff was doubtful. Jack looked down at the vase in question, and repressed a chuckle. Various animals had been painted in miniature, engaged in their respective intercourses. Had this boy’s friends truly sent him into a brothel, himself seemingly unawares, to retrieve a slightly-smutty vase? Only to be apprehended by a mistress whom detained him and left in search of the madame? Jack couldn’t really be sure, although his instincts told him it was likely the case. Finally he signed, shook his head, and chose mercy.

“Alright, fine. I’ll vouch for you when we get to the station, and I’ll let you off with a warning.” 

Arthur tried to thank him, but Jack cut him off with a gruff snort. “But if any policeman catches you doing anything even remotely illegal, they’ll haul you in and you’ll have to deal with me personally”. 

Arthur’s face paled, and he nodded quickly. “C… can you let me up, sir? I’d very much like to have my hand back.”

Jack crouched down, and took the boy’s small wrist in his large hands. The handcuffs were a thick, heavy affair. Jack jimmied the cuff back and forth, twisting Arthur’s wrist as gently as possible in an attempt to pop the pin. After a few fruitless moments, having cycled through all the methods he’d learned to weasel out of handcuffs, Jack was at a loss. He swore, and pulled a worn handkerchief from his trouser pocket. Arthur was admirably holding back his tears, and Jack suppressed a big-brotherly urge to chuck him beneath the chin. He offered up the handkerchief instead. 

“Chin up, fellow. Wrap this around your wrist if you can, under the metal, and don’t wiggle around anymore. I’ll see if I can find a key.” 

Arthur nodded bravely, and began working the thin fabric under his bonds. “The woman that grabbed me went that way,” he explained, tilting his head in the direction of a hallway. “She said she’d deal with me in a hurry, so… so I think she was trying to come back.” 

Jack thanked him with a smile, and followed the boy’s gaze down a smoky hallway headed by a beaded curtain, both sides lined with numbered doors. A door at the end of the hall was sturdier-looking than the rest, a bronze plaque proclaiming it simply as “office”. Jack made his way through the curtain and towards the door, carefully. The sounds of the raid were still loud behind him, scandalized shouts and indignant cries echoing endlessly through the interior of the joined victorian rooms. Moving quickly, realizing that an underfoot child so close to the front door would be in particular danger when the cadets began to coral the brothel’s clientele out of the building, Jack pushed his way into the door at the end of the hall. 

Jack had expected many things when he and the other cadets had been briefed by the Detective Inspector this morning. He’d expected crying women and infuriated men; arguments, refusals, excuses, a suitably embarrassed politician or four. What he hadn’t expected, however, was the sheer number of... well... he supposed he’d call them devices... that were hung in neat, orderly rows behind a the large wooden desk of the office he’d hastened into. His eyes travelled past a long leather switch, tipped with a sturdy-looking leather patch and hanging from a thin cord, an assortment of leather strapping and buckles in unfamiliar configurations, and several hanks of think, braided rope. His gaze finally came to rest on something reminiscent of a dog muzzle, and he idly wondered what a brothel would need with so much tack before coming to the startling, if inevitable, conclusion that they were intended for those who paid. He turned red to the tips of his ears, and spun to make a hasty escape when a high, angry voice brought him back to reality.  
“Can I help you young man?” 

Jack sputtered and locked eyes with the woman seated behind the desk. She was so short he’d not noticed her presence, perhaps mid-60s, with neat hair and short fingernails. Jack committed her image to memory almost reflexively, a skill that unbeknownst to him George Sanderson was eager to see improve on this green young cadets rise to authority. Jack noticed as well that the sounds of the raid-in-progress behind him were imperceptible behind the large door he’d closed upon entering. It occurred to his fledgling-detectives mind that the silence here was probably a godsend for the woman currently fixing him with a stern and unflinching glare, and he felt his blush creep down his chest to take up residence somewhere quite lower and more private. She was still eying him warily, her steely expression demanding he reply.

“Sir if you do not explain yourself immediately I will throw you out of this establishment myself.”

Jack cleared his throat. Twice. 

“Well ma’am...” he stalled, surprised by the presence of this woman, and taken aback by how quickly the truth jumped to his lips. Surely this was the Madame, and surely keeping her in the dark as long as possible would make the raid move more smoothly. He thrust his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders, unconsciously attempting to assert his authority as a policeman — however small that authority may be in reality. But the Madame was not to be trifled with. She smacked her hands on the surface of the desk as she stood, and the woody, hollow crack that followed sent a jolt through young Cadet Robinson with such an intensity that he neatly packaged the feeling and stored it in the back of his mind; where he couldn’t force himself to examine it further. 

“Now, Cadet.” Madame Brussels snapped, and Jack found himself answering her, quite unable to stop himself.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, ma’am.” Jack swallowed and continued quite against his better judgement, “This is a police raid and...” he gulped, “I’m afraid you’re under arrest.” 

A sharp intake of breath was the Madame’s first reply; “Oh, goddamn them,” her second. 

As the Madame rushed around the desk Jack discovered himself quite released from whatever strange and unknown part of his mind had made him answer to her. He crossed back to the door in two large steps and put his hands out to stop her progress.

“Ma’am, you’re under arrest and you’re coming with me.” Jack placed one hand on his baton, and brought the other to rest on the Madame’s shoulder. “And there’s a child here, he’s been er… attached to a table near the front of your establishment. I’ll need a key to his handcuffs, which I’ve been told you may have in your possession.” 

The Madame almost smiled, then sighed. Jack’s hand on her shoulder was unyielding, and she didn’t bother to struggle free. If this was to be the end of her enterprise, then it was best to go out with dignity.

“Oh,” she replied, “I hadn’t meant to leave him so long, he’s probably learned his lesson by now.” bringing a hand to her hip where a large ring of keys hung from her thin belt. “I’ll set him loose and then—“ 

The smell of gunpowder hit Jack’s nose at almost the same instant he heard the shot. Then more shots, and the door behind him splintered and cracked. He was frozen, by fear more than surprise, and hit the ground with a grunt as Madame Brussels pulled him down, yelling for him to take cover. Further shots rang out, and the sound of frantic screaming wormed its way through the destroyed office door and into Jack’s head. His eyes widened with panic, panic that he swallowed down with a too-dry throat, and he crawled to the office door with ice in his veins. A child caught up in the middle of a police raid was dangerous enough, but a child trapped in the middle of a fire fight was almost certain to sustain an injury or — 

Jack shook the thought from his mind and wrenched the door open slowly, wondering why he hadn’t thought to arm himself before this moment. Sure, most of his job thus far had been accosting vagrant children and escorting the occasional drunk out of harm’s way, but to enter a raid completely unarmed… Jack suddenly felt childish and very, very ill prepared. He turned back to Madame Brussels, who nodded at him slightly, indicating that he should continue into the hallway. Jack steeled himself and crawled on his belly into the long, dark hallway. The gunfire had ceased, but the wailing had only grown in volume and desperation.

“Please God,” prayed Jack, slowly standing and pressing himself against the wall. “Please God, let that little boy be all right.” The thought of Arthur, bleeding and torn, hanging limply from his previously-humorous and harmless punishment was too much for Jack to bear. He lost his nerve and sprinted out into the open front parlor. The room was smoky, the smell of iron and gunpowder filled the stuffy air. His heartbeat hammered against his clavicle, then seemed to stop beating entirely as he beheld exactly the image he had feared. 

There lay Arthur, in a pool of his own blood, slumped down onto the plush carpet with his wrist raised and his shoulder clearly pulled out of joint. Madame Brussels gasped, and brought a hand to her lips, hurrying towards the boy who had moments before uttered his death rattle. Jack’s vision tinted red, but he could not move; He could only gaze helplessly at the little boy he’d been trying to help. The little boy who might have lived had Jack not allowed himself to feel anything at all. 

It was the first time God had abandoned Jack Robinson, but it would not be the last.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: mentions of death, mentions of war, mentions of bdsm paraphernalia, please let me know if I've missed anything. 
> 
> Jack returns to the present, and discusses "electrical massagers" with Miss Fisher and Mac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I don't think Jack is sad all the goddamn time. I think he's sad 95% of the time, and the other 5% of the time he's with Miss Fisher.

Jack’s fondness for the bright-eyed cadet he used to be gave way to a sinking feeling as he remembered Arthur, and how the handkerchief he’d given the boy had been so soaked with blood that the morgue hadn’t bothered to return it. He’d gotten rid of all his handkerchiefs that day, even those lovingly monogrammed “J.R.” by his mother, a gift for her soon-to-be policeman son. He simply couldn’t bear to look at them. 

***

Jack's musings returned to the conversation he'd just escaped, and though he fought to listen to his chattering new constable, his mind had other plans. As they travelled back to his office together, Jack couldn't help but turn his last encounter with Phryne and Mac over and over and over in his mind. 

***

“Oh,” he’d said, like an utter fool, clearing his throat. “Oh, that sort of electrical massager.” He’d blushed, something he did almost every time Phryne was near him, and cursed himself for how daft and inexperienced he’d sounded. Perhaps other women would be unsurprised by his sexual inexperience outside of, well, the usual ways; but he feared Phryne would think less of him for it. 

“Oh, so you know what we’re looking for?” Phryne had asked him, and Jack had balked. “Have you seen one before?” 

Jack shook his head no, then yes, then no again. He tried desperately to find something, anything to say to this fascinating, infuriating woman. 

“I… uh.. erm…” Jack was sputtering, stammering, hopelessly embarrassed. His eyes met Phryne’s entirely of their own accord. “I was once ordered to raid a brothel in Chinatown that employed all manner of…” He trailed off, finally managing to tear his frantic eyes away from Phryne’s curious ones. Mac had looked back and forth between the two of them, amused. 

“... interesting devices,” Jack finished, swallowing several more times than necessary. 

“Now that’s a tale I haven’t heard,” Phryne shot back, almost instantly. Jack’s eyes found hers again, as if he was a satellite, incapable of averting his gaze from the brilliant, celestial body he orbited.

“I confess I failed to understand the point of most of them,” he replied, hoping this admission would move their conversation along to something less painfully intimate. Mac opened her mouth to reply, and Jack felt a surge of relief. 

“I have a friend who can enlighten you,” the doctor quipped. 

That was the last time he’d count on Mac for anything, Jack decided. He felt his entire body grow hot. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he swore he saw Mac look pointedly at Phryne, then back at him with a nod. For one terrifying moment Jack thought he might faint from the indecency of it all. While his heart screamed in his chest, “Do something, you useless man,” his brain protested in the only way it knew how. 

Complete denial. 

Jack feigned ignorance of Mac’s comments, but didn’t fail to notice Phryne’s sly glance towards the doctor. 

“It was during my cadetship,” he’d explained, and “Goddamn my eyes,” he’d thought, as he dragged his gaze from Phryne’s face only for it to return there a breathless instant later. “The whole establishment made a… lasting impression.” 

Jack hoped half-heartedly that Phryne hadn’t noticed the way he’d licked his too-dry lips, or that he’d had to lean on the doctor’s table to support himself as his knees threatened to drop him. 

“Mr. Freud would be terribly interested in that,” Mac said levelly, looking to Phryne with a roguish grin. 

But Phryne had eyes for Jack and Jack alone. “I’m quite interested myself,” she cooed, and Jack was suddenly frozen to the spot, unable even to fidget his feelings into something manageable, as was his usual response to her advances. Time stopped as he was caught up in the inexorable power of Phryne’s presence. The commanding tilt of her raised chin and the arch of her bare, elegant throat immobilized Jack with the force of a magnetic pole. He was lost in her, drunk on her, felt his yearning for her as if he had physically reached out to touch her only to find his reach depressingly lacking. Jack didn’t even hear his annoying new constable ask what they were looking for, nor his glib response. (Reflecting on the conversation later, having kicked his bedsheets away from his too-warm skin, he remembered only how husky his voice had gone, and the glint in Phryne’s eyes as she recognized its gruff and needy timbre.) 

Jack struggled to return to Earth. He held his breath, he bit down hard on his tongue, and he imagined himself surrounded by armed convicts. 

Nothing worked.

“So, who is the current head of the medical association?” Jack managed to choke out, uncertain if he’d been ensnared by Phryne this time for mere moments or an eternity.

“Dr. Wilbur Littleton”. Mac replied, taking pity on Jack in his distress. Jack heaved a sigh of relief and excused himself and his constable, tearing himself away from Phryne before he made a greater spectacle of himself than he already had.

***

There’d been an absurd number of further devices in that now-closed brothel, Jack reflected as he walked. In addition to rope and leather (the sight of which assaulted him with an ashamed sort of excitement ever since), he’d seen glass sculptures in strange tapering shapes, furniture of dubious practicality, and and, yes, an electrical massager sitting plainly on a table at a bedside— almost exactly the image he had seen in Prudence Stanley’s home. How silly and embarrassing and young Cadet Robinson had been that September morning, yet how happy. A grin crept onto Jack’s face without his knowledge.

He’d had prospects. Promotability. Promise. Significantly less scars and significantly more unearned egomania. He’d waltzed onto the beat the day of that raid believing that police-work was easy, that only the old fogeys running the place could make a mess of things. Jack Robinson was different, he’d told himself. Jack Robinson would make a difference, improve all aspects of the police force from the inside-out, and not a damn thing was going to get in his way.

But that had been before Arthur, he reminded himself with a grimace, and before the war. Arthur’s death had taken the naive spring out of Jack’s ambition, but hadn’t slowed it a whit. He’d thrown himself into his work, and in turn found himself growing closer and closer to Rosie, who was almost always at the station for some reason or another. (It took him longer than he cared to admit to realize she was at the station to see him). One thing had led to another, until marrying Rosie was not only the pleasant thing to do, but the easy thing. Between his promotions and his marriage, Jack believed he’d finally atoned in some small way for his clumsy part in the raid.

And then came the war. Jack had returned to Melbourne an angry, haunted man. He wasn’t proud of those first few years back home, of how he’d turned away from Rosie and those friends who’d shared with him the unlucky privilege of surviving active duty. Rosie had been patient at first, weathering his outbursts with a sweet, almost saintlike patience. But as time passed without any improvement in Jack’s mood, and as his violent episodes 

_“Though I never hurt her,” Jack thought resolutely to himself, taking at least some small succor from the fact. “I’d have killed myself first.”_

became more frequent and less logical, Rosie pulled away. When he’d first returned she’d rub the tension from his shoulders, ply him with kisses and caresses, and lead him to bed to soothe his fury. Her ministrations had been kind and dutiful, but never welcome. The part of Jack that understood how to be touched with gentleness had been carved from him, discarded in a foreign trench and left there to rot. He was scrupulously, obsessively careful about not getting Rosie pregnant, on the rare occasions she actually managed to get him into bed in the first place— he just couldn’t stomach the thought of bringing a child tainted by himself into the world. As his rebuffs became habitual and expected, Rosie finally pulled away, likely for her sanity as well as his. 

It wasn’t until a particular episode, however, that they stopped sharing a bed.

Jack had awoken, shouting himself hoarse into the indifferent night, to find Rosie standing in the doorway, shaking like a rabbit and clinging to the book she’d retired with as though it were a shield. He had realized, then, that the depths of his sorrow and fury terrified her, and resolved never to bring it into her presence again. He stopped drinking when he realized it caused him to sulk, hoping it would help him manage the manifestations of his angry, tireless guilt. When he felt an outburst approaching he left the house, returning only when his emotions were firmly in check. When the nightmares kept coming despite his efforts, he moved into another bedroom. It made less of a difference in their relationship than Jack had expected— by that point they may as well have been in separate countries for all the tenderness they showed each other. Rosie’s singular observation on the matter had been that she could finally sleep through the night. Jack was thrilled that one of them could say as much. He quite suspected that Rosie was relieved to be freed from that last vestige of marital closeness, though she was too kind to admit it.

Years of concerted effort earned Jack the ability to strangle his outbursts within an ironclad resolve, built upon the merciless discipline of his thoughts. That resolve quickly became his only guide, regardless of circumstance. It robbed him of his joy as surely as it quieted his grief; but to Jack it was a small price to pay to never see that fearful grimace on Rosie’s face again; a smaller price still to end his dreams of ceaseless gunfire, endless trenches, and a small, broken body dangling from a metal cuff. 

***

Jack wiped his eyes and employed his resolve to put thoughts of the past out of his mind, at least until he could reopen his old wounds in private. He returned to his office at a clip. The paperwork following this case would require more time and delicacy than his usual style of reporting could provide. He allowed himself to wonder briefly if Phryne would spend a long evening helping him write his reports when this was all finished, and thin smile played across his features. But his resolve was an all or nothing affair, and although exposure to Phryne had certainly given it a tenuous flexibility wherever she was involved, he simply couldn’t make a habit of trusting himself. With a sigh, he pushed Phryne behind his walls as well, and arrived at his desk in a polite-but-emotionless mood.

As ever, Detective Inspector Robinson buried his feelings in red tape and protocol, ignoring the familiar sting as another tattered remnant of Jack swallowed his self-hatred, surrendered, and died.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: mentions of death, please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> End of Death and Hysteria. Miss Fisher asks Jack about his long-ago raid, and Jack finally promises to answer her in earnest.

Jack walked beside Phryne, his arm red hot from where it brushed occassionally against hers, as they discussed the events of their settled case. The easy camaraderie of their conversation still surprised him, but he cherished it nonetheless. He looked at her frankly, unguarded, and wondered when he had started thinking of her simply as “Phryne”. He cherished this informality as well, even if it was exclusively in his mind. His professional discipline had disabused him of the notion of calling her anything but "Miss Fisher", excepting those times when her life had been in danger. But then, he considered, his professional discipline didn't matter when her life was on the line. Contentedness left him as his brain started down a well worn track: 

_“God she’s so important to me._

_Leave her be, Jack, she deserves far better than you.”_

A small part of him cried out that this wasn’t necessarily true. Being around Phryne, basking in the affectionate way she looked at him and the easy way she intruded on his space, had awoken some overlooked reserve of self-regard within him. After that first case, where Phryne had ambushed him so completely, Jack would never have considered himself a contender for her heart. But now, after countless investigations and touches and one purely-tactical kiss… he wasn’t so sure. He doubted that she’d fall for him the way he’d fallen for her.

_“But she might.”_

***

“It has indeed been a long and winding trail,” Phryne said, looking at nothing in particular as she strolled out into the yard. 

“Pity it took two murders to prove it’s not healthy to bottle things up,” Jack replied, without a hint of irony.

Phryne tossed her hair and grinned as she recalled Jack’s earlier evasion.

“Which reminds me,” Phryne said, her smile evident in her voice. “You never did tell all about the Chinese Brothel.” 

The events of the raid on Madame Brussel’s had transpired over twenty years ago, an entire war and a respectable career separated him from that first, fatal failure -- but Jack had resigned himself to knowing that the raid would always haunt him, even as the pain began to fade. 

“I have trouble recalling trauma,” he replied in what he hoped came across as roguish good humor. With luck, he could get to the car and back to Melbourne before Phryne pushed him any further on the subject. 

But then her hand was on his elbow, pulling him back towards her. She smiled up at him through her lashes, and his resolve dissipated along with the hole guilt had gnawed through chest. 

“Jack Robinson, you promised me,” Phryne insisted, and suddenly Jack’s feigned happiness was genuine. The sound of his name on her lips made him pause, blink, search her face for answers. She didn't give him time.

“Do I have to put you on the couch and psychoanalyze you?” She finished, her voice soft and imploring. Jack regarded her silently, noticing the way Phryne was focusing on his lips and filing the memory of it the way he would the facts of an investigation. A year ago, less perhaps, he’d have offered some clever comment and made his escape. 

But something subtle had shifted between them. Something vital and exciting had changed over the course of this investigation, and Jack discovered that not only did he desperately _want_ to sink onto her couch and let her have her way with him— he wanted her to _know_ that he was hers for the taking. He had to say something, even if it led to the end of their safe, perfect arrangement. 

“Sounds inviting.” He admitted before he could overthink the consequences. “Perhaps another time, in a more intimate setting.” 

Phryne was still holding his arm, still smiling, still looking at his lips as though she wondered how they felt; but as with every other time he’d made an advance, Jack steeled himself for the worst. For outrage, for disgust, or _(worse, he thought, god so much worse, for it was how Rosie had finally left)_ for a polite and pitying farewell. 

But Phryne leaned into him, until their lips were a breath apart.

“I’ll hold you to that.” She said, as though it was the easiest thing in the world. As though she would honestly enjoy taking Jack Robinson apart and putting him back together, just to understand what made him tick. 

Jack grinned. He exhaled. And he bundled himself into his waiting car before he could take her in his arms and kiss her. He knew— the way a child knows he’s swam too far into the sea— that once he started kissing Phryne Fisher he wouldn’t stop until she throughly and completely despised him; and that was one thought Jack simply couldn’t bear, no matter how many walls he put up in front of it. 

_“It had to be done”_ , he thought, still amazed at his candor. _“But far better that she believe I am charming and distant than sincere. She can never fall out of love with me if she doesn’t fall for me in the first place.”_ It was a lesson he had learned with Rosie, and he didn’t think he’d survive should he require further instruction. If he was to be another man in Phryne’s parade of men, then so be it. Jack would let her take him body and soul, and when she tired of him he would exit quietly, with dignity, and shelve his memories of her with all the rest. 

_“But what if she never tires of you,”_ that broken, hopeful voice within him protested. 

For the first time, he allowed himself to seriously consider the prospect. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: mention of death
> 
> Edit: I completely overhauled this chapter once I'd gotten some sleep.
> 
> “Jack Robinson,” She insisted, ignoring his bait . “Tell me exactly what you saw on the wall of that brothel. Now. ” Her tone was firm, unyielding.
> 
> Jack's breath hitched and burned in his chest.

The drink in Jack’s hand was comforting, but as it was his third whisky of the evening he sipped it infrequently, using it to stall when Miss Fisher's questions became too personal. 

Two weeks had passed since he'd teased Phryne with a more intimate discussion of the raid on Madame Brussels's and now she was grilling him for details. He'd recounted his experience briefly, without mentioning the specifics of the casualties 

_"Arthur. His name was Arthur. You can't even bring yourself to say his name after all this time."_ he'd chastised himself. 

or the crimes involved. Phryne had nodded in the right places, all smiles and charm. Then he'd tried to change the subject to something less painfully intimate. She hadn't let him, and had leapt on him with questions he didn't begin to know how to answer. 

Despite the formative age at which he experienced the brothel, Jack never thought much about sex beyond its basic mechanics. His only real experience had been with Rosie, which while sweet and dutiful had never been passionate. _"Or even enjoyable,"_ he admitted guiltily to himself. Two people. Love. Marriage. Sex. Inevitable Heartbreak. And now, divorced, Jack thought himself a chaste man.

(It never occurred to Jack that the sleepless hours of willing himself not to think about how Phryne’s hair perfectly framed her lips, or how soft her hands were on his skin, or how badly he wanted to press his face into the crook of her neck— until he finally rolled over and spent himself into his hands, simply to exhaust himself into uneasy slumber— disproved his self assessment.)

And so, chaste as he insisted he was, he certainly hadn’t thought about sex with... accessories. Which was what he was currently trying (and failing) to explain to Phryne in the most polite and respectable way possible. 

“Miss Fisher, it was twenty years ago. Even if I remembered anything I'd seen in detail, I wouldn’t know what it was.” 

“Well then,” Phryne replied cooly, “Describe what you saw and I'll _tell_ you what it was.” 

Jack sputtered, but recovered in record time, and Phryne pretended not to notice. Needling was often the only way to make him talk, and Phryne desperately wanted Jack to confide this in her; and not only to satisfy her natural curiosity. She'd noticed his near-constant scrutiny and ever-present blush, and couldn't fathom why he hadn't at least initiated further flirting. He never took the liberty, never overstepped his bounds. Such repression was unhealthy, in her well-informed opinion- and besides, she couldn't stand to come inches within the man's grasp only for him to hesitate time and time again. Phryne was prepared to push, propriety be damned. 

"You're asking me to tell you about a load of equipment I know nothing about." Jack answered warily. He felt sweat beading on his neck and resisted the urge to wipe it away. "This is a ridiculous conversation. I wouldn't even know how to use any of it." 

Phryne grinned, thrilled that Jack was showing his hand. 

"Jack..." She purred, dragging her eyes up his chest slowly enough to ensure he'd notice. "I didn't ask... but it doesn't matter that you don't know how to use any of it. I do." 

He blinked at her, startled. A giggle fought its way up her throat at his expression, only to be drowned in a sip of brandy. She'd suspected that somewhere beneath his deflections lay the truth of his desires, and she'd been correct- though whether he understood those desires himself was another matter entirely. 

Meanwhile Jack's head was pounding. 

“I don’t have time to fantasize about... about this sort of thing, with or without additional equipment,” He insisted. “I was young, I was confused, and then I never thought of it again.” 

“Until I asked you about the electrical massager.” 

“Until you... well. Yes.” Jack pressed his hands into the tops of his thighs, desperately seeking a graceful exit from the conversation. 

“And now you’ve thought about it but can’t recall a _single_ item from that brothel that... excited you?” Phryne challenged. 

“I…yes, Miss Fisher.” Jack sighed in reply. “Let’s say that for all practical purposes nothing in particular _excited_ me.”

"Scared, then?" 

"No." 

"Delighted?" 

He snorted a laugh despite his discomfort. "No." 

"Aroused?" 

The look Phryne gave him sent a shiver throughout his entire body, and he fought to remain absolutely still. The last thing he needed was her thinking she was at an advantage. 

"N...No." He managed with a grimace. 

Phryne chuckled. "Well then, since you're so unaffected, tell me everything you saw."

_"Goddamn her,"_ he thought unhappily.

"It would take me all night to recount it all," Jack offered by way of reply. He finished his whisky in a thick gulp and stared into the bottom of the glass to hide his expression. He felt heat rising on his cheeks and prayed that Phryne wouldn't notice. 

"We _have_ all night." Her voice was triumphant, eager. She saw the tip of Jack's tongue flick against his upper lip and knew she almost had him. 

"This really matters so much to you?" Jack shot back, hoping he could goad her into dropping the subject. "Don't you have better things to think about than what I saw in a brothel two decades ago?"

“Jack Robinson,” She insisted, ignoring his bait . “Tell me _exactly_ what you saw on the wall of that brothel. _Now._ ” Her tone was firm, unyielding. 

Jack's breath hitched and burned in his chest.

***

Her note had been on his desk this morning, but no one saw her leave it. It wasn’t unthinkable for Phryne to break into his office, she’d done it many times before, but it was unusual. Jack had lifted it halfway to his nose in search of her perfume before he stopped himself, then stuffed it into his pocket, determined to ignore it for as long as possible. 

He’d tried to focus on the backlog of paperwork he'd been working through, but his thoughts kept returning to Phryne’s message. The third time he knocked his files to the ground in accidental restlessness, he gave in. Her loopy handwriting barely filled the first line: 

_“Nightcap. 8 o’ clock. I trust my parlor is intimate enough?”_

Once the exhilaration of their solved case had faded, Jack started kicking himself for taking liberties. He was certain that Phryne’s reply to his weak flirtation, 

_”I’ll hold you to it”_

was only politeness, and so he'd forced himself to avoid her. He kept to himself, stayed away from her usual haunts, and spent as little time between work and home as possible. He resolved to stay away from Phryne until she stumbled back into his life, hot on the heels of some criminal. He knew another case would bring them together eventually, but couldn't face her again without the comfortable excuse of an unsolved murder.

Then her note had appeared out of thin air, rendering Jack equal parts relieved and terrified. It was clear that he was on the hook, that Phryne expected him to engage in the conversation they’d flirted at. The prospect of sitting in Phryne’s parlor, sipping nightcap after nightcap, casually discussing the sexual activities one might need "equipment" for scared the sweet hell out of him. This woman had enraptured a long line of men more handsome and intelligent than himself, he was sure. Their experience and open-mindedness intimidated him. He wasn’t eager to prove his inadequacy to Phryne any further than he already had, but was powerless to refuse her invitation. 

He could make excuses he supposed, by claiming that some case or another was monopolizing his time. He wished he’d dismissed her curiosity when he’d had the chance. Time had given him the opportunity to worry, and Jack was terrified of the intimacy such a frank conversation about carnal appetites, even in theory, might create.

He’d gone home early, largely because people kept popping into his office on business, interrupting his anxious thoughts of the evening to come. He'd lay in bed for hours, staring up at the ceiling, struggling to find the right words to say to Phryne when the time came. He knew, in his heart as well as his mind, that if Phryne got any closer she’d decide he wasn’t worth the trouble and have done with him. After all, anyone who'd ever loved Jack Robinson grew to hate him in the end. 

He'd determined, after an afternoon of turmoil, that the safest course of action was to appear for this proposed nightcap, make polite small talk, and then disappear as quickly as possible. 

Simple. Logical. 

Impossible. She’d snare him into whatever conversation she wanted to have, and he doubted he’d be able to refuse her. Not at 8pm, in the parlor he’d grown so accustomed to, alone with this whirlwind of a woman that had swept so intensely into his life. 

When 8 o' clock finally approached, Jack arose and dressed. He took Phryne’s note from his pocket and pressed it to his lips reverently before tucking it away among his belongings and setting out. If he was careful, kept himself in check, he might survive the evening with minimal embarrassment; but then again, he'd never managed to save himself from her before. 

***

“Tell me _exactly_ what you saw on the wall of that brothel. _Now._ ”

Jack couldn't breathe. He swallowed thickly and tried unsuccessfully to formulate a reply. The way she snapped his name had stopped his heart in his chest. There was humor in her words, she was sparing with him as always, and yet... Jack felt the urge to tell her the truth in its entirety. Something in her tone, immovable and powerful, settled in the pit of his stomach as her eyes bored into his. He nearly told her then. Not just about his shameful delayed reactions to the things he'd seen in the office of the brothel, or the guilt he carried for the raid's fatal conclusion; but everything. How diligently he kept himself from her, how mad she drove him, how desperately he loved her. 

It was luck alone that stopped him. Mister Butler knocked politely on the parlor door, and announced that he would retire. Jack sighed in relief and tried to take another sip of whisky, remembering too late and to his dismay that the glass was empty. He stood and crossed to the sideboard as Mister Butler removed himself, then took his time pouring another drink. 

_"Don't."_ he thought in a panicky haze. _"Tell her about the brothel. Tell her about Arthur. Tell her whatever she wants, just don't tell her you love her."_

___When he could stall no longer, he turned to face her once more._ _ _

____

__

____

***

Phryne, for her part, was amazed that Jack was sitting in her parlor in the first place. After his promising, albeit vague, hints that he enjoyed her advances, he’d disappeared for weeks. She could have gone after him, but to all appearances he was avoiding her, and she was determined not to scare him back into that damned professional mode of his. Her decision to send the detective a note was only the first step in her plan to drag the man back out of hiding. So she’d been pleasantly surprised when he appeared at her door this evening, with his hat in his hand and a worried smile on his face. They'd fallen into their usual pattern of banter and light innuendo. To Phryne's surprise, Jack had seemed almost at ease, until she raised the subject of the infamous brothel.

Now she watched with ravenous curiosity as Jack stood, refilled his glass, and turned to face her again. She refused to drop her gaze, looking at him expectantly with steel in her eyes. 

***

Jack’s heart was pounding. They'd bantered and puzzled their way through an hour or two. Jack meant to make his excuses and depart almost immediately upon his arrival, but was unable to remove himself from her side. No, he'd told himself that he was safe. Their discussion had centered on cases and witness statements, and He’d stayed to bask in Phryne's presence. Now he was stuck like a startled deer, trying fruitlessly to pull himself together. He was a policeman, by God, and a damn good one. He’d faced down murderers without the slightest hesitation— so why was it that he couldn’t face the woman who’d stolen something so worthless as his heart? He knew if he told her, seriously, to back down, to leave the raid of the brothel in the past where it belonged, she’d drop the subject. He’d lose a bit of pride, but there were worse things in the world to lose. So why couldn’t he refuse her?

***

Jack was blushing, hard, and Phryne found herself wondering why exactly that was. Did he harbor some illicit fetish, some desire he was gathering the courage to voice? Or was he truly out of his depth- did this capable, extremely handsome man simply never dream of baser pleasures? 

Phryne pondered his behavior further, observing him slowly and carefully. It wasn’t just that every exposed bit of his flesh seemed to be blushing, Jack was _trembling_. He’d gone from self-assured and stubborn, his usual self, to flustered and wide-eyed in the space of ten seconds, and all she’d done was tell him what to d—

_”Oh,”_ Phryne thought. 

_“Oh, my.”_

She’d demanded things of him before, and he’d always been able to refuse her, so what had changed? Was it that there was no professional protocol to keep him from answering her now, from doing whatever she asked? Could it be so simple? 

She didn’t know. She doubted Jack knew himself.

She believed now, however, that Jack had honestly never considered deriving pleasure from anything except the usual way. And while her rational mind insisted that she treat this newly-revealed part of Jack as gently as possible, part of her hungered to discover exactly what could make her Detective Inspector lose his resolute discipline, even temporarily. 

Phryne sat up a little straighter, fixed Jack with her best glare, and snapped, 

“That’s quite enough stalling, Jack. You’re going to tell me everything about that brothel and you're going to do it _now_.” 

She could see his Adam’s apple working in his throat, and watched with fascination as this infuriatingly brilliant man— a man who had ignored her demands a thousand times at least— bowed his head, avoiding her glare, and whispered,

“...Alright.” 

Jack heaved a sigh and met Phryne's eyes. 

He told her everything. The crops, handcuffs, whips, rope, and -- of course -- the electrical massager. Throughout his explanation his eyes never strayed from hers, and he found that by losing himself in their green depths it was easier to speak. His head spun without end but he pressed on valiantly. It wasn't until he neared the conclusion of the raid that he hesitated. Shakily, he placed his glass on the sideboard, to keep from dropping it. Then he told her, tonelessly, of carrying Arthur from the brothel to the morgue. 

"Oh, Jack." Phryne breathed, rising to her feet. "I didn't know." 

Jack shook his head, heavily. "You wanted to know everything," he said, his voice bitter and low. 

Phryne was in front of him now, looking up at him with unabashed concern. "Jack, I--" 

"Don't," he breathed, pushing her gently away. "Just... wait." 

Phryne came no closer, dropping her hands to her sides, but never looked away. Jack only breathed, one hand over his eyes and the other on her bare shoulder. Minutes that could have been hours slipped away as they stood, trapped in their own personal hells: Jack, having placed the burden of his pain on another; and Phryne, having caused Jack pain without intent. 

When he had a tenuous hold on himself, Jack removed the hand from his eyes and wiped his tears on his trousers. 

"I apologize, Miss Fisher," he began. "You didn't invite me here to whine." 

His mercilessness towards himself angered her. "Jack... you can't just-" 

"I can and will," he retorted, unwilling to bear her pity. "I'm fine. Please just... just drop it." 

"...Dropped," she promised, in the gentlest voice she could manage. 

"Thank you." Jack cleared his throat quietly, and added, "I'll be going then." He made it almost halfway across the parlor before she spoke again. 

"Jack, wait." Phryne whispered, catching his hand as he passed. "Please, stay. You... haven't told me about your latest case yet and... and I think you could use my help." Her smile was dazzling, but didn't touch her eyes. A moment passed. Another. Jack squeezed her hand lightly and released it, as though it hurt him to do so. 

"Alright, Miss Fisher," he replied, sinking into the chair beside her. "Three guesses who's involved..." 

***

Jack regaled Phryne with the details of his latest case. The pain of his old wounds became less acute as she bathed him with her smile, and he relaxed despite himself. She soothed him with occasional, gentle touches as they spoke, wishing she'd thought more carefully about pushing Jack this evening. 10 o' clock saw Phryne perched on the arm of Jack's chair, running her fingers through the curling strands of his hair. 11 o' clock saw Jack reclined, his feet propped on the sofa as he gazed up at her through his eyelashes, watching her speak animatedly of Mac's latest discoveries. By Midnight Jack was exhausted but wide-awake, pacing the length of the parlor as he and Phryne talked through an ancient unsolved case. As Phryne scribbled possible leads onto stationary for him, Jack unwillingly checked the time. 

"I'm sorry, Miss Fisher," he said with a frown. "I'm afraid I've overstayed my welcome." 

"You're always welcome, Jack," she replied, not looking away from her notes. 

"It's late, I really should go. I've kept you longer than I should have." 

Phryne finished her notes and folded the lightly-scented piece of paper. She had a choice here, she realized. This was the latest Jack had ever stayed, the most vulnerable he'd ever been. She had stumbled, forced him somehow to uncover a painful part of his past, but they'd moved forward. She was amazed he hadn't left immediately, to hole up until she sought him out once more. But here he was. Energetic, engaging... She didn't want to let him go. Not if she could convince him to stay. Phryne stood and moved to Jack, stopping just short of making physical contact. She waved the notes under his nose, teasing, and tucked them into his shirt pocket. Jack caught a hint of perfume, familiar and intoxicating. 

Now she was looking up at him, so close that a moment of decision on Jack's part would mean an embrace. He fought the urge to touch her cheek and won, barely. Phryne was fighting no such battle. Her hand on his throat was heaven, and she pulled her fingers down towards his chest. 

"Wait, Jack." She started, stroking his tie idly with her fingertips.

_"If I let him slip away again..."_ she thought, _"I don't know how I can broach the subject in the future. I must know."_

She gathered her nerve slowly, watching Jack shiver as she brushed up against his skin. She prayed silently that she was right, that the worst of the evening's storm of negative emotions had passed. She took a steadying breath and pressed on. 

"Jack?" she asked, and earned a low rumble of acknowledgement in reply. She began to run her fingers down the side of Jack's neck. His tendons were prominent, his eyes screwed shut. His breath was shallow but even, as though he held his heart in check by will alone. The way Jack had looked at her when she demanded he speak to her, with his pupils blown and hips held completely still, was fresh in her mind. He'd been vulnerable, _needy_. She wanted awfully to see him that way again, to be the reason for it. Phryne grit her teeth and took the chance. 

__

__

"Stay." 

Jack's eyes flew open. He leaned away from Phryne, an inquisitive look stretched across his features. 

"Miss Fisher I-" 

But Phryne didn't let him finish. 

"Jack," she continued, taking one of his large hands in hers. "What if I offered to show you what some of that... equipment... you saw years ago at Madame Brussels was for?" Jack was shaking, almost imperceptibly, and she forged onward. "It isn't abnormal, I mean. You aren't... there isn't a reason you shouldn't..." She ran out of steam and shook her head, annoyed with herself. "Jack I want to show you this, need to show you this. I lov-- need... you." She course corrected at the last moment, afraid that too strong a declaration would frighten him. "And I think you need me... this. Too." 

Jack didn't respond. Phryne held his face, her thumbs gently stroking the swell of his cheekbones, until he choked out his reply. It was too much for his exhausted, worried mind to consider that Phryne's alleged need for him was sincere. He couldn't face a Phryne that loved him, not now, not with her fingers painting ice-hot swirls on his cheeks. Not when he'd shown so much weakness. But Phryne hadn't said "love", but "need", and Jack's need for her was undeniable. He couldn't bring himself to declare himself similarly, though, no matter how long he stood there, her hands on his face, in the total agony of having to make a decision. 

If she didn't stop looking at him like that soon he was going to explode. 

"Give me an example." Was all Jack managed. 

Phryne licked her lips, wary but encouraged. "For example... I'd like to put you in handcuffs. Just for a moment." 

Jack laughed, surprised. "Handcuffs. You need to put me in handcuffs. If you wanted me to go to prison that badly, I'm sure you could have arranged it." 

Phryne smacked the side of his face, heavily but not hard. He sucked in a breath and grew still. Phryne noticed with satisfaction that Jack's pupils were ever-so-slightly larger, his breath ragged. 

"Some people, Jack, like to be restrained. It _does_ things for them," she explained with faux-impatience. 

Jack swallowed, but the corner of his mouth quirked upwards and he quipped before he could stop himself, "Who would _enjoy_ being restrained?" But understanding crept into the back of his mind, and he wondered, briefly, if it was really so strange to want the burden of choice removed. How much worry, how much anxiety... over how he would touch her, where, when, would disappear with his agency? Quite without his permission his mind replayed his near-nightly rendezvous with his memories of Phryne, altered them to match her present request. 

Phryne took a deep breath and continued, her voice soft now, filled with longing. 

“What if I asked you to? Would you do it for me?” 

Jack's throat was dry. 

Was this something she'd asked of other men, he wondered, and had they acquiesced? Would he let her restrain him, if she wanted to? Place his life in her hands intentionally, with the only danger being what she might choose to do with him? Could he do this for her? Would he? 

He'd rip his heart from his chest if Phryne asked him to, without question. 

Jack had the look of a small animal being preyed upon, and Phryne relished his reaction. She raised her eyebrows, taking in his too-taut shoulders and frantic breathing with the single-minded consideration of a starving predator.

“Well, Jack?”

He could only nod.


End file.
